


Shining among Darkness

by WingzemonX



Category: Before I Wake (2016), Matilda (1996), Orphan (2009), Ringu | The Ring - All Media Types, Stranger Things (TV 2016), The Omen (Movies), The Shining (1980)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Growing Up, Nightmares, Psychic Abilities, Psychological Drama, Supernatural Elements, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-08 22:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12263082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingzemonX/pseuds/WingzemonX
Summary: *Translated from SpanishDr. Matilda Honey has dedicated her whole life to helping children, especially those with The Shining, children with special abilities as she was. For many years, she has actively contributed in Eleven Foundation, an organization dedicated to supporting this type of children. Following this mission, Matilda is called to Eola Psychiatric Hospital to interview a twelve-year-old girl named Samara Morgan, who has tremendous psychic abilities that seem to break away from the usual patterns they have seen before. Everyone who has any contact with her, say there is something strange behind her, something they can only describe as evil.But Matilda doesn’t believe in evil and is determined to help Samara, just as someone helped her in her youth. But she will realize sooner rather than later that evil is indeed quite real, and she has gotten into something that is beyond what can understand. [Multicrossover of several films and series]





	1. Chapter 01. The subject

**Previous Notes:**

_Hello everyone. I am **WingzemonX** , and it is my first attempt to translate one of my stories into **English**. So, give me some patience in that area. I know that everything will be full of errors and strange sentences, but I will try to do better with time. If someone prefers, you can always read the original **Spanish** version._

_The story you are about to read is maybe the most ambitious **Multicrossovers** I've ever done, for the number of movies and series it's going to involve. I can’t tell you right now all since maybe it would bring some **Spoilers** , but as they appear in the story, I will point and explain about in the **Author's Notes**. However, how you can intuit by the summary (and the title), at least three movies are involved: **Matilda** , the film from **1996** ; **The Ring** , **2002** film; and **The Shining** , **1980** film. But I assure you these won´t be the only ones; there will be several more that will be intertwined._

_For the most part, I think it can be read without any problem, and without having seen any of the films or series involved, as if it were an entirely independent story (or at least that is why I have tried to do). Of course, there will be many winks and references to the original material, which only those who have seen it will be able to understand. But you know, if you have any doubts, you can ask me anything freely._

_There is one more thing I want to say before begin with **Chapter 01**. Several of the characters that will be the protagonists, in their original material we knew them as children, twelve or ten years old, or even much younger than that. However, some of these children here would be presented as adults, twenty years older than the last time we saw them, or even many more. In the same way, their physical descriptions will be, obviously, different, but so will their personalities. We will agree that everyone is different from thirty to six, or even sixteen to five. Therefore, their personalities in this story would be something like my interpretation of how they could be grown up, also considering the direction and role they will have here. It is to warn you, and not feel I am using Out of Character or something similar._

_Without further ado, I leave you with the first chapter. I remain attentive to your comments and opinions._

— — — —

**Shining among Darkness**

**By  
** **WingzemonX**

**Chapter 01.  
** **The subject**

It was not the first time Dr. Matilda Honey visited the wet and cold Oregon. The first one was during her high school years, to attend a congress of young readers in Portland. At that time, she was a small dwarf of thirteen, or perhaps twelve, walking between a sea of fifteen and sixteen years old giants. However, although her work had led her to tour different parts of the country in the past, it rarely took her to the West Coast since she settled in Boston. The times when she went to those time zones, were used to be at holidays, when she took a plane to go from end to end, from Massachusetts to California, where her mother lived —in fact, adoptive mother.

She was considering taking advantage of this trip and down from that wet and cloudy spot, towards the warm and sunny Arcadia, to spend a few days with her mother, in the same old, but remodeled, white house from the beginning of the past century. Of course, that would be once she had a place in the affair that had brought her there at first.

She rented a car at Portland Airport, and drove almost 50 miles to the southwest, direct to Salem. The rain caught her halfway down the I-5, and that slowed her progress a bit. She was not a complete fan of driving on the wet pavement, especially on the highway. She arrived at the Grand Hotel in Salem a little after eighteen and a half, but only to register and leave his suitcase in room, and minutes later was back on the road.

After flying seven hours, plus the car trip that added an extra hour, anyone would only want to lie in bed to rest and leave any theme to solve for the next day. But Matilda Honey wasn’t anyone. She had a date at seven o'clock, and planned to attend without fail; not for nothing had scheduled it that way, calculating the time that would take all the trip.

Take advantage of every second; a very adult mentality, which she did not take long to assimilate while growing up. Get high grades and skip years, to the point of finishing her postgraduate in Yale at age twenty-two, had not done so lying in bed and resting, for sure.

Her final destination was the community of Eola, which was about six miles from Salem, on Route 22. It was one of those points on the map that many would describe as _in the middle of nowhere_ constituted for only a few houses and few shops. The highlight of that site was undoubtedly the Psychiatric Hospital, built in times when people wanted to have their mental as far away as possible. Although that, it had not changed much.

She called there to notify she was on the way, but it took her longer to communicate with the person she was going to meet than arrives at the place. She parked in the narrow parking lot in front of the three-story white building. Its facade already needed a remodeling, after years of erosion almost guaranteed by the constant rains.

The water did not fall so hard when she got out of the car but was enough to have to cross the small stretch between it and the entrance door covered with her sky-blue umbrella, with white clouds print. It definitely did not make her look very professional, but it had been a gift from one of her children, and that was enough.

Her children.

From time to time, she found herself thinking in that expression, and sometimes even using it when she spoke. The right thing would be to tell them _her patients_ ; _her children_ was a term more used by her mother to refer to her students. But both cases were not the same.

She entered through the front door, not without first draining the umbrella to wet as little as possible the floor. Then, she walked down a long corridor with chairs at the sides and the most cliché: a flickering fluorescent lamp on the ceiling. In the end, there was a small reception module, where a skinny young girl with blond hair, in a green nurse suit, was watching her cell phone with interest. She had it hidden, behind the small bar that separated her from the visitors, but it was apparent because of her eyes and movements.

The hallway was all alone, and the sound of her low heels against the shiny polyurethane floor resounded with a clear echo. Matilda stood front the young lady at reception, and she barely raised her face enough to look at her. Despite the makeup she wore, more than one would expect in a nurse on duty, her tired expression, dark eye bags, and slightly reddish eyes, were not completely disguised.

“Good evening,” Matilda said in a neutral tone, but cordial enough. “I am Dr. Matilda Honey of Eleven Foundation. Dr. Scott is waiting for me. We have a date at seven o'clock.”

The nurse did not even mutate. He lowered his gaze, again only the necessary, to the screen of his hidden cell phone.

“There are still fifteen minutes left,” she informed her as if it were the most obvious, but elusive, revelation in the world.

Matilda took a deep breath.

“I know, it was a bit early.” That statement depended heavily on whom you asked because in her original plan she was supposed to arrive at the hotel with enough time to take a bath and rest even for an hour. “Could you check if he could receive me right now?”

She paused for a moment as if the answer to that question were difficult for her to process. Matilda wondered if that lethargy was due to stress, lack of sleep, or perhaps to the effect of some improper substance; she hoped it was not the last one. In the end, the nurse reached for her desk phone, and pressed the receiver between her shoulder and left ear. Her hands were flipping through a small brown notebook on her work area, searching the extension number, maybe.

“Wait a minute, please. The doctor will be here soon.”

Her tone didn’t convey much confidence, but Matilda obeyed and sat down on one of the chairs in the hallway. She placed her briefcase on the floor at her feet, and her handbag in the next chair, and waited.

She waited more than she thought.

The fifteen minutes that separated her from the agreed time passed relatively fast. The following, no so much anymore. Every time she turned to see the blonde nurse, she had her eyes on her cell and showed no interest in the time she's already been sitting there.

Matilda decided that it was an excellent opportunity to check her cell too: an iPhone 7, a Christmas gift from her mother, which she had not told her the price, but Matilda was sure that it was excessive. Although her eagerness to learn and learn made her enthusiastically embrace the computer boom and the arrival of the internet when she was still young, it seemed that the generation gap was finally reached her, with this so-called _smartphones_. Even so, she was the first to accept her usefulness in matters of communication, and to be alert to her patients and her mother.

She checked a couple of new e-mails that had come while she was flying, none important, and about three hundred messages from _WhatsApp_ and _Messenger_ ; the majority, equally not very relevant. The most important was a message from Jane Wheeler, head of the foundation she represented on that trip so you could say she was somehow her boss; although in reality, she was much more than that. The message just asked her how she was and how the trip had been. Matilda replied everything had been excellent and was waiting for them to let her get in. The reply was sent but not read at that time. It did not surprise her; it must have been past ten o'clock in Indiana, and it was Monday. They had agreed to speak on Wednesday, so for the moment she only had to inform her that had arrived safely.

Once she finished checking all her messages, there was still no sign of movement. The wait lasted until twenty past seven. She was about to stand up and ask the young lady for explanations, when a few quiet steps from the left aisle, which likewise reached the reception area, were present in the sepulchral silence.

A tall man in a white coat appeared on the other side of the corner, and he went to the nurse for a few seconds, who quickly used her irritated to point in Matilda’s direction. The man with broad shoulders, a square head, and short black hair turned to look at her curiously through his large round, thick-framed glasses. To Matilda, his appearance seemed curious; it was as if he intentionally wanted to show himself as a sitcom character from the eighties, those who from time to time repeated on television, late at night.

The man approached her, sketching the one Matilda thought was the most genuine smile he could make at that moment, but it was patently false.

"Miss Honey?" He asked in a jovial tone, standing beside her and thrusting his hands into the pockets of his coat. Matilda had already risen from her chair, and at that moment she placed her bag on her shoulder.

“Doctor” she corrected him, more sharply than she had originally intended; perhaps the annoyance of the long wait had influenced. “Dr. Honey, please.”

The man, who by the hanging tag of his right pocket knew that was indeed Dr. John Scott, looked her up and down after this clarification.

“Of course,” he said slowly, more like an involuntary gesture than a real comment. “You are much younger than I expected.”

“People tell me that often.”

And they did it, really.

Dr. Scott cleared his throat a little and then turned in the direction he was coming.

“Well, this way, please.”

He started to walk, and she followed him. Their footsteps echoed in the silent hallway.

"Everything is almost ready," Scott informed quietly, "and the subject has been informed you will talk to her. She seemed to be… moderately interested in it.”

Matilda did not externalize anything visible or audible, but the way he had pronounced _the subject_ had annoyed her considerably. When a person went from being a patient to being a _subject_ , it is a sign that something is not right.

“I hope you have been able to review all the information we gave you about the case, and it has been useful to prepare you.”

“I got all the information I need at the moment," Matilda answered without any trouble, “including the data that you deliberately omitted or decided to ignore in the reports you sent us.”

These words took John Scott by surprise, and stopped him dead in his place; Matilda advanced a few more steps, before realizing it and stopping as well.

“Excuse me?” exclaimed John, incredulously, which provoked a smile of slight satisfaction on the lips of the Californian girl.

"I excuse you," she answered calmly, just before turning back to the path they followed and continuing the advance. She seemed to want to imply she knew exactly where to go. Dr. Scott followed her, a few steps behind. “I need the first sessions to be private, only the girl and me. Without a third person, without cameras, without microphones, and without people looking at the other side of the mirror.”

“I don't think so.”

“It was not a request.”

That was maybe enough to test the tolerance of the good doctor, because at that moment he came forward and stood right in front of her, cutting off the path. Just until then Matilda becomes aware of how tall that man was in comparison to her; at most, she reached the middle of his chest, and he was a little stooped toward her as if he wanted to intimidate her that way. His face, moreover, had let go of any trace of false or true hospitality he had had until a few moments ago.

John Scott took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses with his thick hands, and then began to speak with the utmost tranquility that his very obvious annoyance allowed.

“Let's make it very clear, Doctor.” Sarcasm was strongly attached to that last word. “This girl is my patient, and this is my research. If I agreed to let you see her, it was just for mere courtesy. But whatever you get from your talk, you must share it with my team and me.” Then he pressed his breast with the right thumb of his hand; Matilda thought for a moment in the big and hairy fingers of some primate. “Are we clear?”

“Like the crystal,” she answered with complete calm. Even so, it seemed that the answer had been enough for him because he was quickly ready to turn his back and keep walking. However, Matilda's voice, no longer as quiet as it had been at first, made him stay at only intentions. “But now let me make something clearer."

She stepped fearlessly toward him, facing him without hesitation.

“I am not here to support your research, neither you nor your team. I am here at the direct request of Mr. Morgan, and my sole purpose is to help this girl, whom, from what I had seen, you have endeavored to treat like a laboratory rat during her stay here. And I don’t know who you want to fool, because we both know that this supposed _'courtesy'_ is just because Mr. Morgan warned you to accept our presence here or he would remove the girl from this place. And by the way, we both know that in all this time you have not been able to get something from her with all your... experiments and methods from over thirty years ago, and you want to see if we can make some progress that you don’t. So, as a _thank you_ for your openness, and as a professional _courtesy,_ I will provide you with all the information I get and feel is relevant or necessary for your research, but no more. And if I feel for a single moment that the best thing for the girl is to get her out of here, I will not hesitate to convey that feeling to her father.”

She paused for a moment. Took a deep breath through her nose, still holding her gaze, and concluded.

“After saying that, I repeat: I need the first sessions to be private; only the girl and me. Are we clear?”

The first visible reaction in John Scott was several stammering, undoubtedly involuntary. Then he cleared his throat tightly and flattened his tie insistently with his large hands.

"All right," he said after a moment. “Let's continue…”

He resumed the march, now with much more hurry. Although he radiated mostly tranquility, a watchful eye would undoubtedly detect that dose of annoyance that had added to its already poor disposition, disguised as a _courtesy_.

That sure would not make things simpler.

Before following him, Matilda took a few seconds to take a deep breath, and then let the air out in a heavy sigh. Perhaps she had outdone herself a little with his defensive attitude, but many times she had had no choice. It was complicated for her at times that people outside the Foundation, or the kind of people used to help, would take her seriously. Her small and slender complexion, accompanied by her face that radiated a much more childish air than she should have at the age twenty-seven, made people, especially grown men considerably older than her, look down at her with disdain. And when that happens, prostrating before them, and even with a little aggressiveness, has been the only measure that works. If not, and if the situation deserved it really, there were always other methods; her first school principal had lived them in own flesh.

 _When a person is bad, that person has to be taught a lesson_ , his father had told her many years ago. Perhaps the only real wisdom that man gave her, though she was sure that it was not his intention.

Her guide took her to another long hallway, but it had no way out. On the left side, there were four wooden doors, all with a magnetic card reader mounted on the wall beside it. On the right side, there were four chairs, just like the ones in the reception waiting area; all four were empty.

"Please, wait here a few minutes," Scott said, heading for the last door.

"I thought everything was ready."

“Almost. I think I had said that everything was almost ready.”

With that one explanation, Scott put his badge on the reader, and a _beep_ , followed by a _click_ on the door, indicated that it was open. He hurried inside and closed it behind him before Matilda made an attempt to even look on the other side.

She had no choice but to sit down again and wait.

It was not one of her primary abilities, but she had the feeling that wait would not be short.

— — — —

The room to which John Scott had gotten so hastily was narrow and with rectangular form. Left-handed just inside, there was a large window that practically covered the entire wall on that side. Through it, anyone could see the adjoining room, at least three times larger, square, with walls, ceilings, and entirely white floors; a person was sitting in the middle of that other room.

In front of the glass, there were two desks, placed next to each other and on each the monitors of two computers, in addition to their keyboards and mouse devices. In these monitors, the same scene of the room visible by the glass was repeated. In turn, in front of each desk, there was a chair. The one closest to the front door was empty. The other was occupied by another man with glasses and white coat, though dark-haired and, apparently, several years younger than John Scott, but perhaps about ten years older than the woman who waited in the hall.

As soon as he entered, that other doctor turned to him with curiously. The annoyance that Matilda had noticed also seemed to have been quite evident to this other man.

"How did it go, Dr. Scott?" He questioned him without many curtsies. “How is the mysterious genius doctor who comes to solve this complicated puzzle?”

Scott snorted, amused and jaded by the comment. His attention focused on the other room, but more specifically on the person sitting there, his hands on his legs, and his gaze on the floor.

"She barely doubles her age," he pointed out. “And she's a complete diva. In addition to letting her come here and see the subject, she dares to put conditions. As if we were the ones who called her.”

The younger doctor smiled.

“Do you think she has experience with cases like this for real?”

“Of course not,” Scott said immediately. “This Eleven Foundation, or whatever they call themselves, is just another group of baggers on the backs of people's fears. If they had the experience and knowledge of other subjects like this, do not you think they had already published something about it long ago? Or have they been able to prove it publicly? No one had ever been so close to scientifically proving the existence of real psychic abilities as we do, and I will not let this little girl who plays to be psychiatrist take the credit.”

He inhaled deeply and exhaled, trying to calm down.

Scott looked once more time at the person on the other side of the glass; she was still in the same position, not moving at all; barely blinking every few minutes.

“But let's see if we can get anything good out of this. Maybe she'll open up more to someone like this doctor. She has a… warmer air, to put it one way. But not with adults, that's for sure.”

The other doctor didn’t comment to contradict or reaffirm his remark, and instead, he merely nodded.

“Won’t you let her in?"

Scott glanced at the time at the bottom of the nearest monitor and corroborated it with his watch.

“Let her wait a little longer,” he added with certain wickedness in his tone.

— — — —

Matilda knew she would have to pay some price for her little outburst if that was the right way to describe it. It was only a few minutes since she met Dr. Scott. But, if she relied on her experience of similar situations in the past and the way he had wanted to make his point _clear_ , she could see that he was the kind of man who did not like a woman, especially one so young, to try to impose on him. No matter how openly many people wanted to present themselves, everyone still had old ideas that governed, even unconsciously, their behavior.

She was accustomed to it, and for the sake of the work she had gone to do, which was what mattered most at the time, she was willing to try to leave things in peace as much as possible, and wait there for the time that the good Dr. John, _“I command here”_ , Scott thought it right.

However, she did not think that such a price would be so long. He had her waiting for a little more than half an hour, without giving any small sign of life. She had arrived at the Hospital before seven o'clock, but it was not until a little before eight o'clock that the door through which Dr. Scott had departed opened and he went out again, now apparently with a much better mood.

“Sorry for being late. Now you can pass.”

“Sure,” was the only thing the young doctor had whispered from her lips. She had many other things in mind that would have liked to share, but preferred to keep them; at least for the moment.

John went to the door next to the one he had just used, and likewise passed his badge on the reader lying on the wall beside him. The door locks swung open, and he pushed it in with one hand, letting the path free.

“I remind you what I told you about privacy, Dr. Scott,” Matilda remarked just as she began to move toward the interior of the room. “From what I discovered, I think she can tell me very easily if you're keeping your word or not. True?”

John was slightly startled by these words, which seemed more like a threat. Matilda was aware of it a second after she had said it, but she did not regret it at all.

She would find out later how he would charge her for that.

Once she entered and left barely enough of the door, she heard how it closed tightly behind her, and the locks were put back on. The room she had just entered was square, a little broad, perhaps five meters by five meters. The walls and ceiling were all painted white, and accompanied by the bright white light that hung from the ceiling they made the whole place shine almost unreal as if it comes from some strange dream. On the wall on her right side, there was a large mirror, which was sure to be double-sided. It certainly looked out on the room where John Scott had gone for half an hour to... God only knew what, to make time. Play solitaire, maybe. People play solitaire still?

In front of the mirror, there was a wooden desk, with a chair on one side. There was also a video camera, mounted on a tripod. And right in the middle was what had brought Matilda to that place.

Sitting on a chair, just like the one behind the desk, was a girl, white-faced, very white. Her head was slightly crouched, but she still looked at her, though her left eye was almost covered by her long straight black hair that fell forward on her shoulders. Her eyes were all black, and underneath these were dark eye bags, an obvious result of some days unable to sleep well. She wore a long hospital white gown and black sandals. She was a little older, twelve or no more than thirteen. She had her hands, thin and fragile in appearance, perched on his legs. What she could see from the look on his face, it seemed cold, slightly cold, almost touching the aggressive feel.

The pallor of his face, his dark eye bags, and the moody vibe she carried around her, were signs of fatigue, annoyance, and perhaps bother. And it was not for less considering the place where she was, and not just for that strange room.

Matilda's face and attitude changed utterly at that moment. She went from being in a practically defensive state to take a much calmer and relaxed posture.

“Hello, how are you?” She nodded without hesitation, sketching her first sincere smile that night. “This is not the nicest place to talk, is it? It would have been better to sit in the cafeteria while we ate and drank something. Do you think the same as me?”

In spite of Matilda's natural cheerfulness, she gave no sign of a response. Instead, the girl stayed frozen, barely looking at her or noticing her presence. It didn’t surprise her; she prepared herself with the idea that it would not be simple.

Matilda went to the table cautiously; the girl followed her with her gaze, barely moving the neck. Matilda left his briefcase and handbag on the desk and then she turned around it. For a moment it seemed like she would take a seat in the chair but, instead, she took it with his right hand, and without uttering a word she began to drag it for the floor toward the center of the room. The chair screeched hard against the floor, almost as if she was doing it by the way. Only at that moment, Matilda could notice a small signal of reaction at the face of that child, although it was practically a gesture of confusion.

Matilda placed the chair right front the other one.

"Can I sit down?" She asked cheerfully, still smiling.

The little girl looked at her out of the corner of her eye and just shrugged in response. Although it was a response of notorious indifference, she decided to take it as consent and sit down.

She adjusted her long olive-green skirt, crossed her legs, and gazed at the little girl in front of her. As soon as Matilda laid her big and bright blue eyes on that pale and stoic face of her, the girl turned away quickly, somewhat intimidated by the sudden closeness maybe.

“My name is Matilda. What's your name?”

“You already know that miss," the dark-eyed girl suddenly snapped.

Well, that was progress. Matilda was surprised to hear that her voice was much softer and sweeter than her almost threatening appearance might suggest.

“You can call me Matilda simply. And maybe I do, but I'd like you to tell me it yourself. You know, to get to know us better.”

The girl looked at her in silence. Though her gaze was still as cold as when she entered the room, Matilda could see how she hesitated between answering her or not. Her fingers, even on their legs, crossed and rubbed together. Nerve sign?

"Samara," she whispered slowly after several seconds of silence. “My name is Samara Morgan...”

**END OF CHAPTER 01**

**Author Notes:**

— ** _Matilda Honey_** _is based entirely on the respective character of the film **Matilda** of **1996**. Initially, she was only **6 and a half years old** , whereas here she would already be between **26** and **27 years**. Her original surname was **Wormwood** , but here it is speculated that she changed it to **Honey** at some point after being adopted at the end of the events of the film._

— ** _Samara Morgan_** _is almost wholly based on the respective character of the films **The Ring** of **2002** , **The Ring 2** of **2005** and **Rings** of **2017**. Samara would be **12 years old** here, as she has in the original movie (before her death). For this, I have transferred its history to the present time, since it originally occurred almost forty years ago. This will bring some changes, and some will be specified in later chapters._

— ** _Dr. Scott_** _is a character from **The Ring** , but since his participation is minimal and we never actually see his appearance, both his appearance and his personality were adapted by me._

— _In the **2002** film **The Ring** , the location of the **Eola Psychiatric Hospital** is not explicitly specified. Under the context of the film, it could be speculated that **Eola County** could be some fictional county in **Washington State** , invented in the movie. Here, however, I have located it in the community of **Eola** in Oregon, which is a real site. This was to take advantage of the same names, give it a more accurate location, and also this is due to some events planned for later._


	2. Chapter 02. I came here to help you

**Author's Notes:**

_Hello everyone, how are you? After a long time, I bring you **Chapter 2** translated into English. I was unsure about continuing with the translation, but after I see that there were several people interested in being able to read it in English, I decided to try again. I re-edit **Chapter 01** in a way could be more understandable (I hope), so if someone is interested, you can reread it. Meanwhile, I leave you with this chapter that is in fact quite short (I think the shortest so far). But don't worry, in Spanish, I have already written **29 Chapters** , so there is a lot of history on the way._

* * *

 

  **Shining among Darkness**

**By  
** **WingzemonX**

**Chapter 02.  
** **I came here to help you**

Samara Morgan, twelve years old, the daughter of Richard and Anna Morgan, two award-winning horse breeders with a ranch on Moesko Island, on the coast of Washington State. She had been hospitalized in Eola for almost a month, due to the strange events that had begun a year ago in her home. Although everything seemed to indicate that these events were happening a long time ago, only until then had they started to become so notorious; and they were increasing, according to the testimonies.

Anna Morgan was interned in that same place, practically at the same time as her daughter, severely affected by everything that happened. Since then, the medicals, including especially Dr. John Scott, had tried in a thousand ways to understand what was happening, and primarily how to treat it to give peace of mind to the girl's parents; and, by the way, to the few inhabitants of their island.

Needless to say, in all that time, they had not made much progress. But this was not for their ineptitude or lack of hospitality, even if Matilda had the unconscious desire to blame it. The truth was that they faced a case that went beyond their knowledge, and for that reason, Mr. Morgan had decided to appeal to a second opinion; the opinion of the organization Matilda Honey represented.

And that was what had taken her to that place, to that bright white room in which she was sitting, in front of that girl with black hair and even blacker eyes. In the photographs that were sent to Matilda, from a few months or even a couple of years ago, Samara looked like a smiling girl with firm pink cheeks. But the girl who had in front of her was entirely different. What most caused her anguish was not the almost sickly pallor of her skin or those marked dark eye bags, but that gaze... that nearly terrifying gaze in her eyes.

Despite her haggard appearance, she was still a pretty girl. Her facial features were delicate, and her eyes, even with that gaze, were quite beautiful, deep and bright.

"Nice to meet you, Samara," Matilda replied, with marked enthusiasm, just after the girl had said her name. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Ugly things, for sure," the Samara murmured with disdain.

"No, not at all…"

"Are you coming to study me too?" She interrupted abruptly. "Do you come to put wires on me and try to discover how I do what I do?"

That sudden reproach took Matilda a little off guard but did not let it break her composure. She continued to smile at her, maybe even more than before.

"I already know how you do what you do, Samara." These words created such notorious amazement at the girl, who was not able to hide it behind those layers of coldness. "And I went here just to help you and support you with it, no more."

Samara remained silent, but she was openly skeptical.

"You do not believe me, right? Okay, that's normal."

Matilda uncrossed her legs, crossing them again immediately after, but now with the opposite leg on top of the other.

"Could you do me a favor?" Matilda leaned slightly toward her as if they were whispering a secret. "Tell me... is there anyone else listening to us right now?"

Just as when she asked if she could sit down, Samara's only response was to shrug.

"I know you do know; not be shy." That last comment ended with a discreet wink of her right eye. "Tell me, is anyone looking at us? Is there anyone listening to what we say right now?"

Again, the young girl seemed to hesitate for a moment. Then, she began to turn her head very slowly around the room. First to the right, then to the left, with a lapse of five seconds between one side and the other. She turned then over her right shoulder, posing her attention in a security camera in one of the corners of the roof; Matilda had not even noticed it. Finally, she looked at the camera on the tripod and at the mirror behind the desk.

"No... nobody listens to us."

She sounded pretty sure about it, although Matilda did not really know for sure how accurate that claim could be, despite how direct it had been with her _threat_ to Dr. Scott. Maybe she had nothing left but to trust that the good doctor would keep his word.

"Then, you can trust that everything you tell me, and everything I tell you, will be between you and me. It's okay?" There was no response. "I know you've had some difficult days. I know you feel that you have been treated as if you were something strange. I know you must be confused, scared, and alone. But you're not alone, Samara. There are others like you, who can help you."

"There is none like me," Samara emphasized brusquely.

"Are you sure?"

A more confident smile was drawn on the lips of the young doctor. She sat upright in her chair again and put her hand into the right pocket of her long tan coat. She was going to take something out, but before doing so, she had the impulse to look over her shoulder at the double-view mirror. Was there really nobody watching? It was impossible to know for sure. But whatever it was, it did not matter anymore.

She pulled her hand out of her pocket and extended it to the front with its palm extended. On her hand, she had a cube made of several pieces of wood, with pastel colors: blue, green, orange and yellow. It was one of those puzzles in three dimensions that took some ingenuity and care to put them together. Samara looked at the curious object with confusion in her eyes. But before she could ask what it was or why she taught it... the cube began to separate from the palm, on its own...

Samara slightly startled when she saw it. The cube rises little by little from Matilda's hand, with complete naturalness, until it suspended in the air at the height of the woman's face. Then, it slowly approached the front, until stay right in the space between them. Samara looked at the cube and the face of Matilda consecutively. The cold and aggressive expression had vanished, and in its place was left only the amazement and wonder that anyone would expect from an innocent young girl.

"What you have, Samara, is an extraordinary gift," began Matilda to tell her. As she spoke, the cube began to separate in its many parts, and every one floated in a different direction, but staying close to others, flitting around like small insects. Samara looked from time to time with interest at some of the pieces, but mainly had her attention set on what Matilda explained. "Some are born with it, others develop it with time, and others... are forced to have it. Different people call it in different forms. My colleagues and I call it the Shining. And those of us, who possess it, are people who shine. Each Shining is different between one person and another, like your fingerprints or the features of your face. Even two abilities that are quite similar vary in their scope, capacity, control, or limits."

The pieces of the cube descended, and they were right in front of Samara. The girl, maybe instinctively, extended her hands to the front. The pieces were suspended centimeters from her palms, and one by one began to fit perfectly, to form the color cube. Finally, it settled delicately on her hands. Samara stared incredulously at the cube and moved her fingers through it to make sure was real and tangible. Then she raised her gaze to Matilda; she still seemed somewhat skeptical. _Did you really do that?_ Matilda thought she would thinking just then. It was a reaction she used to see often.

"There are many like you, and like me," she continued. "And many of them have gone through situations like yours. You are not alone, Samara. I am here to help you."

Samara remained reserved. Matilda noticed how she was pressing the cube with some force between her fingers.

"I do not deserve to be helped," Samara susurrated so slowly, that Matilda doubted to have listened well. "I have hurt so many people. And the horses... my parents..."

The amazement and wonder that had replaced the coldness now gave way to worry, anguish, and fear. That was apparently the real Samara Morgan.

A month ago, several of the horses at Morgan Farm, for no apparent reason, had lost control, even knocking out of their stables and pens, and jumping off the cliffs into the sea. The case was a mystery, except for the Morgans: they exactly knew what, or rather who had been. That had been the main trigger to intern her there.

And still, the horses had not been the worst affected: the main victim had been her own mother.

"I am aware of everything that has happened" Matilda continued, now with much more caution in her tone. "But I also know that it was not because you wanted to do it. Without proper guidance, it sometimes becomes complicated to control what we can do. And people without our gifts, do not understand what that is. They are afraid, they feel confused and scared. But nobody keeps any resentment to you."

"Not even my parents?" Samara suddenly got up.

"Of course not. Your dad was who called us, asked to come and help you. Everyone wants you to be well, Samara. They want you to get out of here and come back with them."

The latter made Samara's face light up, and turn at last to see her directly, and with her eyes wide open.

"When can I go home?" gave a hurry, something that almost hurt Matilda. It was more than understandable that she wanted to leave that place as soon as possible.

"Soon, I promise. I'll take care of that. But for that, I need you to help me. Agree?"

Samara mused a few moments about the proposal.

"What should I do?"

"Just talk to me."

"Just talk?" Samara repeated, arching her right eyebrow. "Without cables? Without monitors? Without injections?"

"Without any of that. Just talk."

"What about?"

Matilda smiled and leaned upright against the back of her chair.

"On this first visit, whatever you want."

— — — —

Their conversation lasted for about forty minutes before Matilda decided it was enough; besides, Samara was beginning to look tired. In general, the topics were focused on getting to know each other better: what they liked to eat, what they preferred to do, favorite series and movies; everything quite normal. Outside of it, the only issue related to the elephant in the room that Samara came to touch was to ask Matilda when she could do _that_. Matilda did not want to go into much detail about it, at least not on the first visit. She limited to telling her she had done it for the first when was six-and-a-half, and from there little, by little, it was strengthened. When the question returned, Samara's face became somewhat melancholy, and with her head bowed she answered: _always_.

When she went back into the hall through the door, which could easily be opened from the interior, the first thing she heard was a sharp laugh a few meters away from her. Looking at the end of the corridor, she glimpsed three figures, two known and one not so, standing at the end apparently talking. One of them was the blonde girl at the reception, who was the one who laughed so hard, very different from the almost lethargic state in which she had met her. The other two were Dr. Scott himself and another man in a white coat and more discreet younger-looking glasses.

As soon as the three of them noticed her presence, and also she was looked at them, they fell silent and hurriedly recovered their serenity. The young nurse lowered her head somewhat embarrassed and began to walk with quick steps back down the hall. Matilda barely and looked at her out of the corner of her eye when she passed in front of her.

"So, how was that?" Scott questioned, with sincere interest.

"Pretty good. Samara is a lovely girl."

"Lovely?" the other doctor questioned, apparently surprised by such a statement. Scott repressed him with his eyes, in a very subtle way.

"Dr. Johnson, could you take the subject to her room while I talk to Dr. Honey?"

The request left the young doctor frozen, who even seemed scared. What bad experience in the past could be the cause of those last two reactions? As it was, he objected nothing, and instead went into the _interrogations_ room to fulfill it.

Scott instructed Matilda with his hand to walk, and she followed him; surely he was more than eager to escort her to the door, even knowing that would see her tomorrow, and last, and most of the days of the next two or three weeks.

"How do you see, I acted my part" Scott committed while they were walking side by side. "I left you two alone, as you requested."

"I know, and I appreciate it. But I still have nothing to share."

"Nothing?" Scott exclaimed incredulously.

"One thing only: Samara is distraught by the ugly room in which you put her. And she promised to be more accessible if you change her to a more comfortable place. My suggestion is: do it.

"Her room is the most suitable one we have for a patient of its kind."

"Violent patients, you mean? She doesn't seem to be the case."

"Just wait. A couple of days more with her and you will ask us to put her in that room yourself, or in a more secure one".

Matilda was deeply disturbed by that comment. Did he really believe that was the correct way in which a doctor should express himself about his patient? No wonder Samara wanted to leave so much.

She stepped forward suddenly leaving Dr. Scott behind fairly soon. She didn't need help to find the exit, so she preferred to continue on her own.

"I'll back tomorrow. And please, let the next sessions be in a better room. She is a girl, not a criminal.

Before Scott answered or refuted anything, Matilda went faster on reception's direction.

It had been a long day, and she wanted to lie down to rest at last, greatly.

— — — —

Dr. Johnson, accompanied by two male nurses, escorted Samara to her room. For anyone external, it would be somewhat exaggerated that three grown men and adults carry a little girl of twelve, especially when she walked quietly in front of them on her own. But only they could say for sure how exaggerated that really was.

Samara moved forward with her eyes downcast, her long hair almost covering her face. In her hands, she held Matilda's colored cube; she had told she could keep it.

The door to her room was steel, with a square window at the height of an adult's face. It had two locks that opened with two different keys. One of the orderlies opened it quickly and left the way clear for Samara to pass on her own.

"They'll bring you something for dinner in a few minutes." Dr. Johnson informed her. Samara looked at him over her shoulder earnestly, causing a small back jump.

The girl entered with calm steps, and the same nurse again closed the door behind her, to quickly put the insurance back.

The room was also completely white with walls and ceiling, quite similar to the room in which she had been with Matilda, although considerably smaller. On the left side, there was a stretcher of white sheets, with leather straps included. From the left, there was a small door that led to a small bathroom, which was perhaps less than a quarter the size of that space; but it was at least maybe the only room of that type (for violent patients) with a bathroom, in that building at least. There was no window, no other furniture or object, except for an old-fashioned circular clock hanged over the door.

Samara moved toward the stretcher, and sat on it, with the cube in her hands. The bed was as low as possible so that her feet touched the floor without a problem. For a long time, she just sat, staring blankly at the bright white floor. Her eyes weighed on her; she felt exhausted.

The brightness of light reflected on the polished floor surface called her attention primarily. That curious expression that Matilda had used (the Shining) came to her mind. She had said that was the name of what she could do.

Her eyes closed alone without being able to prevent it.

But, could there be something shiny in what she did? For her, those skills, those thoughts, what she did... It seemed just to be surrounded...

Of darkness...

Her eyelids closed just a little, but enough. All the space around her disappeared for a small fraction of a second. When her eyes opened again, that space was no longer front her.

The air was dense, damp, and disgusting; she felt how it stuck to her skin and left it sticky. The walls and ceiling were no longer white. These were full of stains, corrosion, and mold. The paint was stained and falling apart. The light was much more opaque, a little more and it would be dark. The ground that she was looking at so strictly only a second ago was now covered of water, dark and calm, and covered her up to her ankles.

Her breathing snapped, and her heart beat hard, while her gaze was fixed on such a horrible vision. A heartbreakingly cold sensation rose through her body, from the tips of her feet, submerged beneath the dark water, to her back. It was difficult to breathe because the air felt tainted as if that didn't mean to be being breathed by humans.

What would follow was already known and expected for her, but it was no less surprising. The bed sank, and its legs creaked a little. Samara could clearly feel the additional weight; she was not alone in that room. She could feel it in her neck with total clarity: there was someone in the bed, right behind her. She heard its breathing, like small, choked screams. Hers, on the other hand, became even more intense. Each inhalation required a great effort to be able to take even a little bit of the necessary air. She didn't turn around at all; she never did it. Partly because fear simply froze her, and partly because she did not want to. Samara did not wish to see directly that which accompanied her.

That thing's hands rested slowly on Samara's shoulders, and they slipped from back to front. Instinctively Samara glanced sideways at the one on her right shoulder, a hand of grayish skin with sores, and dirty nails with brown tones.

She felt that thing approaching even more, as its face placed right over his right ear. Felt its cold breath on her skin, hurting like hundreds of needles.

"She can't help you." Whisper in a deep voice resonated with the echo of dozens more. "You don't deserve to be helped..."

Its hands tightened even more on her shoulders, causing her to let out a scream of pain. She closed her eyes hard, and small tears ran down her cheeks. She tightened her eyelids and did not open them at all until the feeling of those hands on her just vanished. When opened them Once again, everything had changed again.

The walls and white ceiling were there again, including the brightness reflected on the floor. The water on her feet also disappeared, leaving no trace, as if it had never been there. So it was? And most importantly, that horrifying presence at her back was also gone.

She reached out quickly and took Matilda's colored cube, and pressed it between her fingers, against her chest. She continued breathing with anxiety, looking intently at the brightness on the floor. Having that little puzzle with her and so close, gave her some security... but not enough.

**END OF CHAPTER 02**


	3. Chapter 03. A different nature

**Shining among Darkness**

**By  
** **WingzemonX**

**Chapter 03.  
** **A different nature**

On Wednesday of her first week in Oregon, Matilda had her third session with Samara and was the first in which she managed to get them to talk outside of that interrogation room where the two previous ones had gotten. Matilda had suggested the cafeteria, but Dr. Scott's goodwill didn't go that far. Instead, he allowed them to use a special room to interview children, smaller than Samara. It was a room structurally similar to the other: same dimensions, entirely white, a single door, and a double mirror at one end. However, it had several things inside, so they made seeing and feeling the space more pleasant: small chairs, a couple of couches, toys, balls, coloring books, and, of course, colors. There was also a tapestry of flowers and grass covering the lower part of the wall, and paper figures hanging from the ceiling.

That room should make more comfortable a child of five or six, for sure. But, Matilda wasn't sure if it could work with a twelve-year-old girl like Samara. Likewise, she hoped that anything could be better than that white room.

In the first instance, Samara did not seem to show emotion or repudiation of the new scenario; the coldness and indifference of her face had remained constant since their talk last Monday. She led her to one of the coloring tables, and they sat on the chairs (which were apparently quite small for both of them, but at least the young girl with long black hair could accommodate herself better).

After a few casual minutes that mainly consisted of asking about how she felt, if had eaten well, and if wanted to talk about something in particular (which she responded by merely shaking her head), Matilda quickly moved on to something else. From his briefcase, which she always brought with her, she took out a rectangle that was a little thick, just a little taller and longer than a legal size sheet. Samara looked at it curiously. At first glance, it seemed like a pack of white paper sheets, but it was evident that they were thicker than regular sheets. They were like little cardboard to paint. Matilda took out one of them and placed it on the table, right in front of her.

"I'd like you to draw something for me if you feel ok doing it," she said softly, widening his smile.

Samara looked at her askance for a while, in silence.

"What thing?"

"Whatever you want." Matilda shrugged and sat upright in her little chair. "What comes to your mind?"

Samara kept looking at her for a few more moments as if hesitating between doing it or not. In the end, she seemed to accept, because she extended her right hand to the pencil jar near her on the table. However, Matilda stopped her.

"If you want to do it with a pencil, pen or watercolor, it's perfect." The psychiatrist said. "But, if it's not an inconvenience for you, I'd like you to do it the other way." There was a small pause. "You know, the one only you can do."

There was a curious, playful tone accompanying Matilda's words. Samara hesitated; she had no problem understanding what Matilda wanted, but she didn't seem at all ready to do it.

"No pressure, Samara." Matilda hastened to mention, and unconsciously extended her hand with the intention of touching her shoulder, but regretted the act halfway and quickly backed away. It could be too early to cross the line of physical contact. "Remember, with me, you don't have to do or say anything that you don't want. Agree?"

Samara remained silent. It was so difficult to understand what was going through her mind. It was at times like that in which Matilda thought she would have liked a little less telekinesis if in exchange she managed to have a little more telepathy; that would have made her job so simple. But she did not do that because it was complicated or straightforward, and in one way or another, she had to do her work.

The silence lasted for more than a minute in which Matilda waited patiently. When Samara finally reacted, it was so sudden that Matilda missed the moment Samara's right hand landed on the white rectangle front her and pressed her fingers to the material. Her eyes focused on it, and she made a small grimace as if trying to lift something heavy.

They spent about ten seconds in which nothing happened. But suddenly, in front of the pending eyes of the psychiatrist, several brown lines began to spread through the paper, as if someone had poured ink on it. They extended to the sides and upwards, drawing several curves. But it was not drawing precisely: it was as if something very hot, but very thin at the same time, touched the cardboard and burned it, leaving a mark on the surface. It looked like this, but it was not the same. It did not smell burned, and the lines were not on the surface or created cracks in it: it was as if they were part of the same material as if it had been manufactured like that from the beginning.

The curves, at first unconnected and without a logical order, soon began to take shape: altogether they created the image of a tree, large, but with its bare branches, without any leaves in it. And it was quite detailed and realistic, like the drawing of a true professional artist.

Once the drawing was captured, Samara slowly withdrew her hand from the paper, and hid it on her legs, under the table. She lowered her head, and her hair fell over her face as if trying to hide it in grief.

Matilda took the cardboard carefully with both hands and glanced at it more carefully. She slipped her fingers over the surface; in effect, it didn't feel as if the tree had been carved or pressed on him; just it appeared there. She was not surprised that Samara made that tree; in fact, she expected it.

"It's wonderful, Samara," Matilda said with genuine admiration. "I have seen you frequently draw this tree in the other illustrations that Dr. Scott show me. Is anyone in your house?

"No," the girl said hurriedly, surprisingly quickly considering that she habitually took her time to answer. "It's a tree that I see sometimes... in my dreams."

Matilda quickly took note of this information in the notebook she brought with her. In a world where everyone seemed to prefer using tablets with touch screens, she still preferred paper and pencil for almost everything.

It was not directly related, but that comment made Matilda think in something she wanted to ask her in advance.

"The other doctors say you still can't sleep regularly." She waited to see if there was a reaction in her, but there wasn't. "Is there something special that makes you stay awake? Do you have nightmares?"

There was a slight reaction on Samara: a small jump that made her raise her head by mere reflection.

"Most of the time." She murmured very slowly.

"What kind of nightmares?"

"With water... there's water always. Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning and I can't get out."

Matilda was intrigued by it. Water? That could mean many things. Could it be linked to the incident of the horses that were drowned?

"How do you feel in those moments? Desperate? Scared?"

"All that and more."

Matilda rushed to write down everything she could. That would definitely be a topic that would play often, but for now, she decided to shelve it and move on to another.

"I would like to talk a little about your mother. They told me that she is also here. Do you often talk with her?

Again a reaction, but not a positive one at all. Samara's face crouched once more and, under the table, her fingers moved nervously between them.

"She doesn´t want to see me," Samara replied. "She hates me."

"I'm sure it's not like that," Matilda hurried to clarify. "She's just scared, and she's here for help, just like you..."

"They won't be able to help her," snapped Samara suddenly, in a somewhat aggressive tone. "Just as you can't help me..."

Matilda realized that more than aggressiveness, her words were loaded with a certain melancholy, easily contagious.

Mr. Morgan had indicated that the relationship between Samara and her mother had been diluted over the months, and the incident with the horses had been the end of it. Matilda was someone who from the day of her birth was never even remotely close to her biological mother. Also, from the time of her first day in elementary school, she had a reasonably good, affectionate and respectful relationship with her adopted mother. So, it was a bit difficult for her to imagine what it was like to have a mother who you think loves you, and the next day feels that she hates you.

It was apparent to Matilda, even before getting on the plane that had taken her to this place, that the matter with her mother was an important factor (if it was not the main one), of that closed, cold and aggressive state Samara had sunk. If she wanted to have any chance of getting her out of it, the key was Mrs. Morgan.

"Would you like me to arrange you could talk to your mom?" Matilda questioned her gently, making Samara have the most significant reaction of the day.

Her eyes widened, and she immediately raised her face and turned it to see directly, expectantly; It seemed very similar to how she reacted when she promised to help her out of there.

"Can you do that?"

"I can try. Would you like that?"

Without hesitation, the little girl quickly nodded her head. Matilda thought that perhaps she had planted too much hope in her. But she had promised to try, so that would do the same.

"Then leave it in my hands, yes?" Matilda winked at her with conspiracy, and she thought saw a small trace of a smile on those slightly pink lips of Samara. "On another theme, it's very likely tomorrow we won't be able to see each other. I will just go to your house to talk to your father. Is there something you want me to tell him?"

Samara hesitated a moment, then shook her head carefully with denial. Apparently, the longing she had to see her father wasn't comparable to the one she had to see her mother. Maybe she felt some resentment towards him, seeing as the person who put them both in that place.

"Well, maybe there's something you want me to bring from your house?"

Again, a moment of silence before her response.

"One of my dolls."

Matilda was a little surprised, but she tried to prevent her face to reflect it. She did not think that the girls of that time still played with dolls, less those of twelve years old, who already for that age cared more about fashion artists and surfing the internet. Could it be a sign of a small regression? She did not want to be so obvious writing it at the time but made a mental note for later. Maybe she was exaggerating, and Samara was just a twelve-year-old girl who still liked dolls.

"Is there a particular doll you want me to bring you?"

"Nancy," Samara answered with a whisper. "Nancy could keep me company."

— — — —

After the session was over and Samara was taken to rest in her room, the same restraint room from which she had not managed to get her out, Matilda went to Dr. Scott's office to discuss some significant issues. The first, and perhaps simplest, was the theme of the doll. The Good Doctor answered it without much hesitation with a series of points on the security measures of the institution, to protect both staff and other patients.

"It's a doll we're talking about, not a knife," Matilda exclaimed, almost indignant, sitting on one of the chairs facing John's minimalist desk.

"If you had enough experience in this type of institution, Doctor," he began to say, without taking his eyes off the flat monitor of his computer, as he typed quickly and carefully. Matilda hoped he was not chatting with anyone else as they spoke. "Then you would know that even the least thought object can become a weapon in the hands of aggressive patients with the willingness to hurt someone. And this patient, in particular, is already aggressive enough without it."

"All of you made it very clear:  you feel uncomfortable in the presence of this girl. But after these three sessions, I start to wonder if it's not you who are aggressive with her, and those who encourage her to do whatever she has done to you."

Scott separated his eyes from the monitor and turned to look at her over the frame of his glasses with an undisguised annoyance. It was good to know that little by little they became more honest with each other with the passing of days.

"As I said before, just wait a little longer, and you'll understand it," he warned, or instead threatened, bluntly, before turning back to his computer.

Matilda simply sighed.

"Well, how about I bring the doll and she only uses it while she's in session with me? I don't think you really care about my safety, do you? In the room we were in today there were many dangerous colored pencils and toys."

"I don't know if the paperwork will worth it. But as you like, Doctor."

Well, a triumph, or something like that. And in spite of everything, that had been the most straightforward request; Matilda did not even want to imagine what the next one would be like.

"One more thing. I'd like to talk to Mrs. Morgan."

"That won't be possible," Scott replied, much more neutral and quickly than expected. "She doesn't talk to anyone, and less will talk to you. Her behavior has become violent, and we have to keep her sedated all the time."

"Something I heard about that, but I'll have to insist. Heal the relationship with her mother, will be crucial to Samara's recovery. She feels her mother hates her for what happened, and it is important for her to know that this is not the case.

"Well, it'll be difficult, because it is."

Matilda was startled a little when she heard him say such a thing, and her almost murderous look was enough to show that it had not seemed in the least. Either the subject required more of her attention, or maybe the critical thing he was doing was over, because at that moment Scott finally took his eyes off the monitor, and turned his chair entirely towards her.

"Listen to me, you've only been talking with this girl for three days, and maybe you think with that, and with your supposed experience in this field, you already know everything you need to know about her. But it's not like that. The images that she creates with her mind, not only she does on paper or radiographs; she can do it in the heads and dreams of people."

"I already know that…"

"No, you don't know," Scott said energetically. "She did it with her horses on the farm, and she did it with her mother practically since she was a baby. The horses jumped into a ravine thanks to it; Mrs. Morgan... she wasn't so lucky than they."

"She doesn't control it yet," Matilda answered, trying to sound as safe as possible. "Nothing she has done, and that includes here in this hospital, has been intentional."

"Try to explain that to her mother."

"I'll do it with pleasure if you arrange I can talk to her. Not right now, but soon."

Scott huffed, annoyed, and did not answer anything else.

"Please, at least try to ask if she would receive me. I'll see Mr. Morgan tomorrow. I can ask him directly, but it would be easier if you fix it, do not you think?"

Scott looked at her condescendingly, like an adult sees a stubborn child who asks him, again and again, the same request, no matter how hard you say _no_. Even so, in the end, he shrugged, resigned.

"I live to serve you, Doctor."

"And then he turned back to his computer, perhaps ending his talk in that way. Matilda liked it; what she least wanted was to be a second longer in that office that reeked of his overloaded lotion, perhaps marinated a little with his own ego.

Matilda stood up and withdrew in silence. She went immediately to her hotel to prepare herself. She had an important date that night, after all.

— — — —

At eight o'clock, western time, Matilda was already bathed, groomed, combed, and lightly made up; nothing exaggerated, just a little to hide the small eyes bags of fatigue began to draw, and some blush to color her cheeks. She put on casual clothes, but clean and ironed. Not even when she had a date with a boy, the few times she had actually had it, was arranged so early and carefully. And the worst part was that she was not even going to leave the room. Well, maybe taking advantage of the fact that she was already fixed, she would go out to a restaurant nearby to dinner. But the initial intention of his arrangement was a simple video call by _Skype_.

But in reality, that _simple_ call had nothing _simple_ in it. Nothing was simple when it came to talking to Jane Wheeler, the founder and head of the Eleven Foundation. In spite of all the years she had known her, she kept getting nervous every time she saw her; and that included even if it was just her image on a screen. And she was more than just being her boss; for Matilda, Jane was much more than that. Besides that under that constant smile and friendly attitude, you had always felt something slightly frightening in her, something that inspired you to bend over at her mere glance, even Matilda, the one supposed to not bend to anyone. Whatever that something was, Matilda was sure it was beyond her Shining. Because, indeed, Jane Wheeler had it, and a powerful one.

Now ready, Matilda sat on the desk in the room, placed his laptop on it and lit it. A few minutes later, the person who waited appeared as connected, and the call began. Matilda took a deep breath and sat upright in her chair; she felt for a moment like a girl going from a moment of relaxation to one of complete seriousness, when the teacher enters the classroom.

On the screen, the video showed in a blink the foreground of a woman's face, already in her fifties, but still with a pretty preserved and elegant look, with dark brown hair, slightly curly, very natural, and short, loose shoulder-length; she looked distinguished. The woman smiled broadly from ear to ear as soon as she saw the image of Matilda on her own computer; her lips were discreetly painted pink.

"Pretty Matilda," her voice was heard through the notebook speakers. "How does the West Coast treat you?"

"Good evening, Mrs. Wheeler," she said hastily, and then had to clear her throat a bit before proceeding. "Better than I expected. Thanks for asking."

The woman on the screen looked at her with slight severity in her large, bright, light brown eyes.

"Matilda, you're too old to I have to be reminded you every time you don't have to call me _Mrs. Wheeler_ or _Mrs. Jane_. Or not?"

Matilda blushed a little at that little scolding. The formal treatment was something she did almost without thinking with certain people who gave her enormous respect; she kept calling her own mother _Miss Honey_ many times, without realizing it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated hastily, inhaling some air through her nose. "I feel fine, Eleven..."

The woman on the screen smiled satisfied.

She would never forget the words she had used to present herself the first time when she was maybe thirteen or fourteen years old: “ _My name is Jane, but you can call me Eleven. All my friends do it."_ And, apparently, that was what she told all the children she came to know in her work, because all her acquaintances of the Foundation, especially those with the Shining as herself, call her like that. She was their _Aunt Eleven_ , their _Mama Eleven_ , and their _Teacher Eleven_ , though she insisted that it was only their _Friend Eleven_.

Many had come to ask her the reason of that nickname, which also gave the name to the Foundation, but only to a few, including Matilda herself, she had answered with the full story. And on why she had decided to call the Foundation in that way, she just said: _"It wasn't my idea, it's a pretty firm suggestion from my now husband and my other friends. In the end, I think I got used to calling it like that."_

"Did you visited your mother already?" Friend Eleven asked, curious.

"Not yet. I will do it once I finish here."

"Perfect; I know it would bother her a lot if you didn't. It would bother me."

Mrs. Wheeler's oldest daughter had already finished college and worked in New York in a Real Estate business, of which Matilda was not entirely well informed; for sure that was the origin of the comment. Her second son, a twenty-year-old boy, was studying in Bloomington, and she still had a sixteen-year-old girl at home to take care of. And even so, she continued directing every step of the Foundation from her home in the peaceful Hawkins, Indiana. And nothing escaped her... never.

Jane's face became relatively severe suddenly.

"Well, before starting, do you have anything else to add to the information that you already sent me?"

Matilda also opted for a more serious position. The reason for the call was to talk about the work that had taken her to Oregon, and more specifically about her current patient: Samara Morgan, and her first impressions after those early days.

Matilda told Eleven a summarized of the situation between Matilda and her mother, and how it seemed to be seriously affecting the little one. She told her she wished to speak with Mrs. Morgan in person, and then try to agree they both could see each other if she saw fit. Eleven listened to everything carefully, only nodding her head from time to time.

"It's quite difficult for a child who shines feels the rejection of everyone, especially their own parents."

"I know that very well." And she really knew it. "What do you think? My approach has been the right one?"

"Your decisions so far seem more than adequate, as they always are."

Those words illuminated the face of the young psychiatrist, without her realizing it. It was a strange thing, how could still cause an effect like that on her the words of encouragement of the right person.

"Is there anything special that you think I should do from here on?"

"Yes." Eleven's tone and face took on a somewhat strange, almost melancholy feeling that took Matilda a little by surprise." I don't want you to take it badly, Matilda... But I think you should withdraw from this case."

Suddenly, the joy and emotion that had arisen in her vanished when she heard her say that last, which now left her totally stunned. Matilda thought maybe she had heard or misunderstood, but the message was totally clear, and she did not understand in the least where it had come from.

"What? But why?" She exclaimed, almost alarmed. "If I've only been here three days, and I feel like I'm making a lot of progress. You just told me that my decisions so far have been the right ones. What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Jane emphasized, raising her hands in front of her in a calm sign. "You are doing great, just as I expected from you. But after reviewing the information that you and the other doctors have compiled, I feel there is something in this case that could surpass you. You are a very competent person, and the fact I asked you to review the situation yourself, proves it. But I genuinely believe that this girl may be beyond what you have seen before. And for your own safety, I can't ask you to keep digging into this."

Matilda felt confused, even slightly dizzy with everything she said. A few hours ago, she had just told Dr. Scott the fear everyone there professed to Samara was wholly unfounded, and now her own mentor was telling her practically the same thing as they?

As I said before, just wait a little longer, and you'll understand it, the Good Doctor had sentenced her.

"What's this all about?" Matilda questioned, unconsciously already something defensive. "What have you seen I don't?"

"It's more what I did not see," she replied in an almost lugubrious way. "There is something in this girl that is very different from what you already know, Matilda. Something..." She made a small pause of hesitation. "I can only say that her shining could be of a different nature."

"Different? What is that supposed to mean?" Her tone had become somewhat more aggressive, and that was quickly perceived by the woman on the screen.

"Listen to me..."

"No, you listen to me," Matilda interrupted sharply. "I don't know what all this is about, but it's from an innocent girl we're talking about; a girl who needs our help, to which her parents, and all her people, have almost entirely turned their backs on her, and if they were to leave her for the rest of her life where she was locked up. It is precisely to help children like her because I am in the Foundation, and I will not abandon her."

"I don't tell you to abandon her." The tone of Jane was also charged with impulse. "I only think that it would be pertinent, for the good of the girl, and your own, that you put the case in the hands of someone with another type of experience."

"Who has more experience in treating children with this kind of problems than me?"

"I didn't say more experience. I said "another" kind of experience."

Matilda raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"What another kind of experience?"

Eleven was silent, holding Matilda's gaze with intensity on her screen.

"It's not something you can talk on _Skype_. I can only tell you there is a huge aspect of the Shining you still don't know. And this girl may be more of this other aspect."

More obscure words and unclear answers; all this seemed to desperate Matilda little by little. It was the first time Eleven made her feel that way; at least she didn´t remember another one.

"Look, I do not understand what you're talking about," Matilda said firmly, raising her voice a little involuntarily. "But with all the respect I have for you, I have to tell you that it would be a mistake for you to take me out of this case. Samara's already starting to open with me; I think I'm making a connection with her, something that Scott and his group of crazy doctors haven't accomplished in more than a month. And if you take me off and put someone else on, that could throw all that progress overboard, and maybe she won't open up like that again. I started it, and I'm willing to finish it, even if it has to happen over you."

She sat down firmly in the chair and took a deep breath, trying not even to blink.

"And I am determined to do so!"

And after exposed her intentions, Matilda stayed in the same position, reflecting security, maturity, and decision, from her look to his position. However, inside, her heart beat a thousand per hour, and an internal voice shouted: _"Did you just raise your voice to Eleven?! Have you gone crazy?!"_

She had spoken that way too many people before, but never to two: Eleven and her adoptive mother. Now there was only the latter. Perhaps she had let herself be carried away by her courage, and she had not stopped to contemplate the consequences, and now that had her dead with fear, even if she remained firm on the outside.

Jane, for her part, remained silent, watching her from the other side of the call, with an almost somber expression that Matilda did not know how to interpret. That _constant smile_ was no longer there. That situation lasted for nearly a minute, in which Matilda repeatedly considered shouting she was sorry and she hadn't wanted to say it that way. However, to her relief... although in reality, it was not so much, in the end, Eleven smiled again; In fact, she let out a small laugh of amusement.

"Did you know that even when you try to be threatening, you can't help being adorable?" She released her suddenly, causing Matilda to blush gravely after the comment. "I have always admired your passion, Pretty Matilda, and I'm glad to see you have the determination to take this to the best possible end. However..." her face suddenly became serious again. "You have to be very clear this girl... is not Carrie White."

Matilda was startled, almost scared, to hear her say that, and her breathing was cut off. Any determination, firmness or security that would have remained in her, it went to the ground because she heard that single name.

Matilda was unable to respond.

"The similarities between both cases are more than obvious. You will not deny them, right?" Matilda still said nothing. "You can't let your emotions about what happened back then, project on this girl, Matilda. It is not right, and it can be dangerous."

Matilda hesitated a little, and when at last she tried to speak, she almost stammered. She took a second and took a deep breath to calm down. It was not fair to bring that subject to light; Eleven knew very well how it affected her. However, deep down, she knew if she did it, it was for a reason.

Carrie White... It had been a long time since she'd heard someone say that name aloud, even though it was hanging around her head quite often.

"They don't," Matilda said at last, as firmly as she could. "I am aware of everything you are telling me, and still I remain firm in my decision."

Matilda expected a reply, but Eleven only sighed, shrugged, and smiled again, though less effusively than before.

"It's okay; it would not be right to insist on something that naturally you decided so firmly. But at least let me find someone else who can support you with this."

"I think Cody is working in Seattle," the young psychiatrist said quickly; the idea had already crossed her mind in advance, and in fact, she hoped to be able to comment on the point along that call. "He could help me. I begin to think his Shining shares certain similarities to Samara's."

"Yes, Cody's help would be useful," Eleven agreed cautiously. "But I still think you'll need someone else."

"Someone with that _another_ kind of experience?"

A funny little laugh escaped from the woman's lips at the computer.

"You've always been the smartest in the room, Matilda. Or... from the chat window. I'll make some calls; I have someone in mind, but I must see if he is available. Meanwhile, I suggest you investigate the story of the girl a little more."

"Her story?" Matilda questioned, surprised. "What happens with her story? If you mean the horse incident, I already..."

"No," Eleven interrupted abruptly, "I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about her story much further back. One of our collaborators gave me more information about her, you should check if you plan to continue treating her. I'll send this to you as soon as we hang up."

Suddenly, Eleven leaned toward the camera, as if trying in some way to get close enough to whisper a secret in her ear. Her gaze again became hard, almost terrifying. And as a storyteller to the fire of a bonfire, finishing telling a story, she whispered in a slow and slow tone...

"Be very careful, Matilda..."

An instant later, before the young doctor could answer something, the call ended, abruptly, without any goodbye or good wishes.

Matilda wondered if perhaps there was some anger in Eleven for her rudeness. She liked to think Eleven was not the kind of person who would react in that way. Maybe it was more a bit of apprehension, because of the situation worried her so much, although she still did not understand precisely why.

What exactly did mean when she said that Samara's Shining could be of a _different nature_? What kind of _other_ experience would have the person who intended to send her? What is it Eleven, and apparently Dr. Scott and his group, have seen in this girl that she just doesn't? And, if they were right? What if there really was something in all that surpassed her? What if she was not really the right person to help Samara?

No, nothing of that.

What she had just said on that call was a pure truth: she was there to help Samara Morgan, and she would do it no matter what...

Matilda was not aware of how much time she was thinking right there, sitting in front of the computer, until she heard the sound of an email entering her inbox, accompanied by a notification in the lower right corner of her computer. The sender was precisely Eleven herself.

She opened it at that very moment, curious to know what exactly it was that she had discovered about Samara's past, especially if it could shed some light on what bothered her former mentor so much. Attached to the mail was several documents, but it was only enough to open one of them. Unfortunately, it did not serve her precisely to understand the cryptic message Eleven had left her with her words... but equally, what the document said, left her almost with an open mouth.

Stunned, she reviewed the rest of the documents, but all were basically a complement to the first.

She leaned against her back, turned pensively to the side, looking at any point on the carpet in the room, and tried to understand how to react based on what she had just read.

**END OF CHAPTER 03**

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

_— **Jane Wheeler** is based on the **Eleven** character from the **Netflix** series, **Stranger Things** of **2016**. **Jane** is the real name of the character, according to the name that had been chosen by her mother, being her full real name **Jane Ives**. _ Wheeler _is the last name of **Mike** , the protagonist of the series, with whom in this story she is married. In the original series, in its **First Season** occurs in **1983** , she is only **12 years old**. For this time, however, she will have around **46**. By the time this chapter is written, only the First Season of the series has been released, and the premiere of the **Second** is expected shortly. So, for now, only the First will be taken into account as a reference for this history from here on, subject to seeing that after watching its **Second Season** there is some information, situation or moment that it considers to be useful to the plot._


End file.
